


Hush, Hush

by alexanger



Series: Casual Affair [4]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: M/M, Oral Sex, Sex Toys, thomas jefferson is one weird dude
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2016-07-04
Packaged: 2018-07-21 14:11:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7390372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexanger/pseuds/alexanger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Burr gets to know Thomas and accidentally says something he wasn't intending.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hush, Hush

**To:** aburr@usa.gov   
**From:** tjefferson@usa.gov  
**Subj:** Schedule   
**Message** :   
I’d like to continue our evening meetings. Monday and Thursdays at 7 ongoing?

-TJ   
_ The question isn't who is going to let me; it's who is going to stop me. - Ayn Rand _   
  


**To:** tjefferson@usa.gov   
**From:** aburr@usa.gov  
**Subj:** Re: Schedule  
**Message:**   
Why not Monday Wednesday Friday? We’ll get more accomplished that way.   


\- A. Burr   
_ Great works are performed not by strength but by perseverance. - Samuel Johnson _

 

**To:** aburr@usa.gov   
**From:** tjefferson@usa.gov  
**Subj:** Re: Re: Schedule  
**Message:**   
Fair point. See you tonight.   
  
-TJ   
_ The question isn't who is going to let me; it's who is going to stop me. - Ayn Rand _

 

When Burr checks the office calendar, he notices a new addition in purple Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, ongoing. He examines it closely and notices that all the addition says is “meeting.” So vague he could have entered it himself. Thomas seems to have been learning.

He’s astounded by the fact that that happened at all. Who besides Thomas Jefferson would schedule fuck meetings like that? He has to laugh - it’s weird, but endearing. It makes him feel valued.

Burr builds his schedule around the little purple entries in that calendar. He meets Thomas every other day, pausing only for weekends. On days he meets with - his boss? Sex partner? Friend? There’s another word there that he doesn’t dare to think - Thomas, he puts an ice cube in the orchid. Try as he might to tear his attention away from thoughts of Thomas, even for just the few hours he’s in his office and not at meetings or out running papers back and forth, the blooms remind him of the man who lifted him out of the monotony that had become his life. The least he can do is water the dear thing properly.

The first few times, Burr is on edge and far too formal. He greets the staff stiffly and tries not to touch anything. But by the second week, Burr is comfortable enough to actually strike up a conversation with the butler, Deacon, thankful that his skin is dark enough to hide his blush when he remembers the circumstances in which he learned the man’s name.

“Have you worked for Thomas long?” Burr asks, as Deacon leads him upstairs to the bedroom - all pretense is dispensed with, now, and Burr finds he actually prefers this by far.

“Oh, about ten years or so,” Deacon tells him. “Tell you the truth, I don’t think I could leave now if I wanted to. You get used to a certain household’s ways and you get stuck in them. He makes this one pun - he’s been making it since the first day I started here - I think I’d just miss it far too much if I worked anywhere else.”

“What was it?” Burr asks despite himself, and Deacon laughs.

“I was dusting the bookcase in his office, and he came in and said to me, ‘you’re doing a great job Deacon-taminating in here.’ I nearly keeled over, but of course I couldn’t laugh outright, not on my first day. I laugh now, though.”

“Still? Every time?” Burr asks.

“Every time,” Deacon agrees solemnly, and Burr decides he was right the first time, he likes this man.

He finds that he’s working himself into the routine of the house. He starts to leave things in Thomas’s bedroom and bathroom - a spare toothbrush, a tub of his favourite body conditioner, a few pairs of socks and underwear, nothing terribly presumptive - and convinces himself that it doesn’t mean anything. It’s just what you do when you know you’re spending the night somewhere; you prepare for the morning after, like an adult.

Up close like this, he learns, in a very intimate way, about all of Thomas’s idiosyncrasies. He calls Thomas out at dinner one night while the two of them sit in the garden together, Deacon hovering somewhere unobtrusive in case either of them need more wine (and Thomas always seems to need more wine).

“Is there any reason you have pasta with literally every meal?” Burr asks.

Thomas looks confused. “It’s salad, Burr.”

“Pasta salad,” Burr corrects.

“Yes. Salad is healthy.”

“Pasta salad is all carbs and I doubt there is a single actual vegetable in here. Olive oil is not a vegetable,” he adds, as Thomas opens his mouth.

“Well,” Thomas says slowly, “if it’s a salad, the carbs don’t count.”

“They absolutely  _ do _ count,” Burr tells him.

Jefferson’s only response is a soft “what the fuuuuuck.”

Another thing - Thomas seems to have at least a dozen seats in his home that swivel. Burr is surprised one evening when he perches himself on a bar stool at the kitchen counter and immediately finds himself turning. “Warn me next time,” Burr finds himself snapping at a laughing Thomas, his feet scrabbling for purchase a good four inches above the floor.

“I shouldn’t have to warn you. Haven’t you ever sat on a chair before?” Thomas teases.

“I don’t make a habit of sitting on chairs that betray me!” Burr protests. He grabs the counter in front of him and succeeds in getting himself steady on his stool. “What’s the point of this? You can’t turn your head enough to talk to the person next to you so you have to rotate your whole body?”

“More efficient,” Thomas says, and he spins to drape his extravagantly long legs across Burr’s lap. “Tell me how I’d manage this if the stool didn’t swivel.”

“You could sit sideways on it like a normal person.”

“Normal is boring. Go for style,” Thomas says. It’s maybe the most Thomas thing he’s ever said.

Style seems to be the name of the game, even - especially - if it’s just plain indulgent. There’s an elaborate portrait of him above the fireplace in the sitting room, in what appears to be period clothing from the early 19th century.

“Don’t know what your face looks like?” Burr is bold enough to say one Saturday morning as they sip coffee together.

“Baby, when you have a face like this, you need to be reminded constantly, because you don’t believe it,” Thomas tells him. “Beauty is startling, I know, but we must accept it and endure. Don’t you love seeing two of me?”

The thought of being sandwiched between two Jeffersons (Jeffersons calling him  _ baby _ , oh God) makes Burr half-hard and he shoves the thought away, electing to snort instead of replying. He doesn’t trust his voice to remain steady. 

“Anyway, it was a great price. I probably still have the costume somewhere.”

“What, you actually  _ wore _ that?” Burr splutters.

“Well, yeah. For the authenticity.” Thomas winks, and Burr can’t help but imagine him in breeches, and it does something funny to his head because he suddenly feels giggly and far too warm.

“You are a very strange man,” he hears himself say.

“It’s a great conversation piece, though,” Thomas says. “I had the google man find me a good costumer and a good artist and the both of them did an excellent job. The google man doesn’t always find quality like that - you should have seen the guy who came in to redo my kitchen counters. Absolute mess. I wanted spectrolite counters and this joker comes in and tries to pass off some plain old blue granite as a spectrolite granite sample. Like, are you kidding? I don’t know much about rocks or whatever but he takes it for granite that I’m just gonna be swindled that easily -”

“Sorry, did you just …?” Burr asks. Thomas grins, clearly far too pleased with himself.

“So I fired that guy and found another. But it was frustrating, you know?”

“Yes, very difficult, sir,” Burr says, in the tone he now only uses to tease Thomas.

“Hush, you. What was I saying - oh, yes, the painting. We should see about getting one made of you as well.” Mischief dances in Jefferson’s eyes and Burr finds himself laughing openly, something he does far too rarely.

“Sure, sir. What would I wear?”

“Purple velvet,” Thomas answers instantly.

“So we match?”

“Yes, exactly.” Thomas pauses for a moment. “Then again, it might be too similar. You look amazing in grey, though.”

Jefferson’s off-handed compliments always catch him off guard - partially because they come out of nowhere, but also because they ring with sincerity. Burr looks down at his charcoal t-shirt and he must be smiling a little, because Thomas laughs then, a sharp sound that simultaneously startles and soothes him.

These moments are becoming more and more common now, and Burr relaxes into them. He doesn’t take a single one for granted, but he starts to anticipate them hungrily. He knows that their evenings begin with wine and dinner and finish with absolutely incredible, mind-blowing sex, and that in between there will be endearing murmurs, compliments, sometimes gentle caresses that have nothing to do with sex and actually seem far too indulgent, far more indulgent than the fucking.

Thomas likes to sit and chat after dinner, and Burr likes to sit and listen. One night Thomas reaches across the table to take his hand, and Burr jumps back, startled. Thomas immediately withdraws his hand and a heavy silence draws out between them.

Thomas suddenly looks very uncertain, and there’s a hint of concern on his face. He opens his mouth to speak and his tongue presses against the roof of his mouth, forming the beginning of a sibilant, but Burr cuts off the sound by lunging across the table and grabbing his hand.

“Oh,” Thomas says, matter-of-fact and somehow not surprised in the slightest, and he continues with what he was saying, and Burr feels something warm explode in his chest.

That night, Thomas takes him upstairs, lays him down, and undresses him reverently. Burr tries several times to get his mouth on Thomas - his chest, his stomach, his cock - and each time he is pushed gently away and told to enjoy himself.

“You do so much for me, Princess,” Thomas tells him.

“Well, yes,” Burr says. “Because I like to.”

“And I’d like to do this for you tonight. Please, Aaron,” Thomas says, and it’s the affection in his voice, rather than what he says, that makes Burr agree. 

Thomas leaves sloppy, open-mouthed kisses down Burr’s throat and along his chest, tonguing his nipples and breathing heavily. Burr can feel the hard length of Jefferson’s cock pressed against him; he fantasizes about sucking it into his mouth and moans loud enough that he’s suddenly embarrassed. Thomas, however, seems delighted; he answers Burr’s moan with one of his own, and bucks his hips.

“I’m gonna treat you so well tonight,” Thomas breathes against the front of Burr’s boxers, his breath so hot that Burr can feel it against his cock.

“You treat me well every time,” Burr tells him, burying his fingers in Thomas’s hair and pulling softly. “There’s a reason I keep coming back here, you know.”

Thomas slides Burr’s shorts off his hips and leaves a trail of kisses along the length of his shaft, which is on its way to erect, what Thomas refers to as ‘lazy hard.’ “Just one reason?” he asks, mock-pouting as he grabs Burr’s cock and bounces it against his lips.

“Hmm, I’m not sure. Do you want me to count?” Burr asks.

“Mmmmm.” The affirmative turns into a guttural groan as Thomas slides Burr’s cock into his mouth.

“Fuck. This is reason number one,” Burr pants, and he is immediately rewarded by Thomas humming in response. “Number two - you are the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen in my life.”

“Mmhm,” Thomas agrees shamelessly.

“And number three, where the  _ fuck  _ did you learn to do that?” Thomas is bobbing his head up and down and swallowing every time the head of Burr’s cock hits the back of his throat. 

Thomas pulls off and a thread of saliva connects him to Burr’s cock, sloppy and endearing. His full lips are already swollen. “I don’t get a ton of practice, but when I indulge my favourites I do it right.”

“Yes,” Burr hisses.

Thomas runs his fingers down the cleft of Burr’s ass and strokes over his hole, and Burr keens. He works his fingertips against the tight ring, rubbing in slow, tiny circles, coaxing him open, and the lack of lube makes his fingertips drag as Thomas sucks languidly.

Burr needs to be filled. He chokes the request out brokenly and Thomas uses his free hand to fumble in the nightstand drawer. He manages to snag lube and one of the weird toys Burr noticed the last time he looked in the drawer. Burr stares at the toy, which is bumpy and knotted from tip to base, and he swallows hard, suddenly very aware of how heavily textured it is.

“Thomas,” he manages. “I need that.”

In response, Thomas slicks his fingers and presses them deep into Burr. It’s only two fingers, not nearly enough, and Burr whines and wriggles his hips, and Thomas slurps against the head of his cock, reminding him to be patient.

Burr knows patience better than anything else. He slows himself and concentrates on feeling the fingers inside him as they work him open. Two fingers still isn’t enough but Thomas is spreading them, encouraging Burr to stretch, and it makes him hungry but he can endure the pangs. It sharpens him so that when a third finger slips in he feels his nerves catch fire.

“That feels so good,” he whispers, more for himself than Thomas, a reminder that he can enjoy the preliminaries as much as the finish. He lets the moment absorb him.

“You feel good, Princess,” Thomas tells him. He’s not sucking now; he’s propped up on one elbow, watching Burr’s face, and if his eyes flick every so often down to where Burr is opening beneath him - well, Burr has to admit, it’s not unpleasant to have such a beautiful man look at you with that kind of desire plain on his face.

“Thomas,” Burr gasps; it’s not a plea, it’s a lifeline, and he holds tight to the taste of that name on his lips as Thomas pull his hand out and replaces it with the tip of the toy. It’s bigger than he was expecting and as it eases in he feels himself stretch around it. It’s agonizing; it’s perfect. He bears back against it. Without warning, the ridge of the head pops through, and Aaron gasps and jerks away. It  _ hurts. _

“Princess,” Thomas soothes. “Relax.” He peppers kisses along Burr’s thighs. Burr focuses on the press of the full lips, the rasp of Jefferson’s beard, the gentle waves of his voice. It only takes a moment for him to start moving his hips in small circles. He adjusts slowly to the size of the toy in him and before he long the hunger is back and he needs it deeper.

Thomas obliges. He works it in and out, pulling out a little only to shove it deeper in, and before Burr realizes it, the widest part of the toy is pushing through and settling into place, and he clenches around the dip behind that flare, the wide base pressing against him. He realizes he wants more, still, and he tangles his fingers in Thomas’s hair and pulls and whines because suddenly words are just not possible.

“What do you need, Aaron? You need this?” Thomas licks lazily up along Burr’s shaft and Burr groans and nods as emphatically as he can. His hips sway side to side in what he hopes is an enticing manner.

Thomas grins wickedly, pins Burr’s hips to the bed with his huge hands, and swallows the length of Burr’s shaft, moaning deep in his throat. Burr feels the vibrations deep into his core. His jaw falls open and he groans in response; he tries to buck but Thomas holds him fast and all he can do is curl his toes and beg without words for more.

He feels his orgasm working towards him from a long way off and he lets himself feel the shivers along the length of his spine. He knows he should warn Thomas. It feels like the words bubble up from somewhere secret inside him, and he knows what he intends to say, but the first pulse hits before he can get the words out properly and what he  _ meant _ to say turns into “I love you, Thomas.”

It’s too late to take the words back. He slams his eyes shut so he doesn’t have to see Jefferson’s face and just concentrates on each pulse of his orgasm. He knows Thomas is swallowing - he can feel Jefferson’s mouth working and there’s nothing dripping and the thought that  _ Thomas Jefferson _ is swallowing his come just makes him twitch harder, and he thinks it won’t ever end; but the flood slows, as it always does, and then he’s spent, exhausted, limp under the hands he adores, uncomfortably full, helpless.

He feels Thomas pull the toy out (and does he hear it land in the tub in the ensuite bathroom? Throwing a dildo from the bed into a bathtub isn’t something he’d put past Jefferson, now that he thinks about it) and feels him settle close by on the bed. Thomas wraps an arm around Burr’s chest and kisses the side of his face. Burr feels the length of his cock hard against his arm and moves to touch it but Thomas gently pushes his hand away.

“I have a better idea,” Thomas says as he straddles Burr’s hips. “Look at me.”

Burr can’t help but oblige. He opens his eyes and Thomas is above him, his hand still slick and working his shaft. Humming in approval, he lays his hands on Jefferson’s thighs and holds tight, drawing the moment out deliciously.

“I have a secret,” Jefferson tells him. “Two actually. One, I like it when you watch me. I know the way you look at my cock and you love it, don’t you?”

Burr groans in agreement.

“I love the way you look at it. You always look so desperate for me, Princess. So I want you to watch me come. Look at me, Aaron. Do you like this? Cause I love it.”

Another groan of agreement. 

Thomas is panting now. “And the other thing - I know you love it when I come all over you. I love seeing you covered in my come. So I’m gonna come on you while you watch. You deserve this, Aaron. You’re so good and I’m gonna reward you for it.”

His hand speeds up as he talks ( _ is Thomas talking himself off?  _ Burr thinks, and he almost laughs because if  _ anyone _ could get off to the sound of their own dirty talk, it’s TJ) and before long he’s drawing harsh, ragged breaths and fucking into his own hand. Burr feels himself stirring again but he doesn’t need to do anything about it; it’s enough to just watch Thomas so absorbed in touching himself. There’s a sharp pain in Burr’s jaw and he feels himself salivating.

Thomas comes hard, gasping as he streaks Burr’s chest with his load. Burr whines plaintively as it splatters hot and viscous, and Thomas was right, it’s  _ perfect _ seeing him come like this, watching that beautiful cock unload on him. He loves the way he feels marked - owned - Jefferson’s plaything, his willing mouth, his obedient pet.

Thomas collapses on him and he feels the semen sticky between them, and he’s torn between needing to snuggle and needing to get off again; but he isn’t ready to go again so soon, so he just cuddles close, pressing his face to the side of Jefferson’s neck and kissing him frantically.

There’s silence between them as Thomas’s breathing slows and returns to normal, and then more silence as Thomas rolls off and curls against Burr’s side. 

Burr is the one to break the silence. “Thomas,” he says, and then pauses, uncertain.

“Hmm?” Thomas asks sleepily.

“The thing I said -”

“Yeah, I know,” Thomas mumbles.

“You - know?”

“Uh,  _ yeah, _ ” Thomas says. “Like, of course you love me. You’ve practically moved into my house. You’re best friends with my butler. You made me eat a vegetable. The other day you gave me a back massage and you  _ know _ I pay a guy to do that, you just did it cause you wanted to. That’s love, Princess.”

“Oh.” Burr absorbs this. Thomas doesn’t sound upset; if anything he sounds affectionate. It’s not the response Burr would have chosen but it’s … well, it’s not bad.

“We need a shower,” Thomas mumbles.

“We do,” Burr agrees, yawning.

And neither of them move.

**Author's Note:**

> this is the second to last piece of casual affair! there's one more coming.
> 
> kudos and comments give me life. bother me on tumblr at alexangery.tumblr.com


End file.
